Off to the brush

So I did it. On September 12, 2008, I stood up in my native “complay” on the lawn of the United States embassy, put up my right hand and swore to serve Mali to the best of my ability for the next two years. It was of course another hot day, but under the tents fanning ourselves with our programs, it almost felt like graduation all over again, (except for the fact that there were speeches not only in English, but in French, Bambara, and Bomou). Most volunteers have were sporting local fabrics. It’s funny to take a step back and remind myself that our men are basically wearing shiny pajama sets because in all honesty, they were lookin quite sharp. So rhis is it. We’re being sent off. A new adventure has begun.
The days leading up to swear in had their ups and downs. It was great being back at Tubaniso, because at this point we’ve become such a close knit group of people. Between sessions we’ve been playing sports, board games, cards, projecting movies in the cafeteria, and just having great conversations. We closed the week with a talent show and superlatives.
So I guess in a way it was good to be in the company of my pals when I got sick yet again. (*Disclaimer: I am going to tell this story perhaps suspenseful and dramatically so just to forewarn you, right now, I am perfectly fine). Tuesday morning I woke up with body cramps and thinking that I just slept on my side wrong, I went for a little run to loosen up. The cramps never went away and by lunch, I was feeling dizzy and had trouble breathing. I spent the rest of the afternoon in the medical center sweating out my fever and trying to take slow deep breaths. The cramps, body aches and general fatigue got so bad that it hurt to lay down, sit up, and walking was out of the question. The nurse wasn’t on duty so I gave her a call and had to answer some scary questions. “Are you up to date on your malaria medicine? Have you gotten a lot of mosquito bites lately?” I took some Tylenol for my fever and started to feel a bit better around dinner. By the time I went to sleep, ironically I felt like myself again. I woke up the next morning feeling better than myself. After a particularly strong 11 mile run, I showed up to breakfast as happy as can be. “Guys I feel great today!” I exclaimed to my friends. “No fever, no cramps- nothing!” “Great” one of my pals said, “If your fever comes back this afternoon you definitely have malaria.” Thanks, Beatrice. She’s right though- malaria comes in cyclic spells of fever, chills, and body aches, and then goes away for a bit.
But the fever didn’t come back, I went through the rest of the day and the next morning still feeling awesome. It wasn’t until lunchtime on Thursday that I started to have pain in my chest and trouble breathing again. I went to see the nurse- tested negative for malaria (thank God!) and had a normal temperature. Probably just hearburn she said- and then left for the day. I went to lay down for a few hours before my run- took 1, 2, 3, then four anti-acids with no relief. An attempt to run lasted about 10 steps until I felt like someone was sweezing their fists around my lungs- tighter and tighter if I kept going. A banna (That’s done). I rested up enough to drag myself to the home-stay family party that night-one member from each of our host families came for dinner and a recognition ceremony. And to my luck, so was the Peace Corps Doctor.
The homestay party was a riot. A bus pulled up with dozens of wide eyed faced- like a grammar school field trip, but instead the bus was filled with our Malian fathers wearing their best threads. Most homestay villages were less “out in the brush” than ours, so it was especially funny to see the Satinebugou dads raving about the food at Tubasnio and introducing themselves to all the big-wigs at the Peace Corps. The three host dads from Satinebougu have a favorite pastime of joking extensively about whose host daughter is the best. So we turned a lot of heads at dinner because our fathers would make a big loud fuss when one of us got the drinks or cleared the dishes. It always segways into all the rest of the things we can or can’t do “She can’t cook, she can’t speak Bambara, she never studies, but my daughter stays up all night studying, and washed my clothes, and works the fields…etc..” The rest of the Malians may have thought our host fathers were the hicks that came and crashed the party, but the Americans certainly thought they were the life of the evening.
I finally got a hold of the doctor to open up the med unit, still with a fever and trouble breathing. Thankfully though, she was able to diagnose me. Not malaria, not heartburn, but actually a virus that had infected the muscles in my torso and around my rib cage. “It will pass in 5-7 days” she says, as she gives me some extra strong anti-inflammatory.
I’ll be ok, I know, but I’m a bit worried at this point that I won’t be able to enjoy the next day. After swear in- swimming, clubbing, and lots of festivities had been planned. All I wanted to do was dance and laugh. But when lifting my arms or taking deep breath was practically impossible, things were looking bleak.
Luckily, the medication worked well, and I felt pretty ok for swear-in day. Today, I’m even better- back running as well. And I certainly enjoyed myself on swear-in day.
After the ceremony, we headed to the “American Club”. I almost felt like the Peace Corps rented out my backyard on Hickory lane. We relaxed for hours by the pool, played some sand volleyball, and grilled out hot dogs and hamburgers. For the whole afternoon, we were back home, and I had to awaken myself to figure out why when I left the gates there were these strange looking African beggars all around.
We were all staying in a hotel in Bamako that night- and my fantasies about sharing a room with three girlfriends, and getting ready for the night on the town together were crushed when I saw that the hotel manager had given us two large conference rooms with dozens of mattresses lined up on the floor together. Bare white walls, bear white sheets- it almost felt like an insane asylum. But hey- I did get a real shower, and a real toilet to use, so in my book it was worth it.
We proceeded to spend the rest of the night dancing at two clubs- the later supposedly being among the nicest in West Africa. Most of the music was American hip-hop, and again, we felt completely removed. I was feeling well enough to enjoy myself and the company of my new friends, who are now referred to as ‘Honey Bunches of Oats.” (An announcement was made by the veteran volunteers that this would be our stage name- because as a freshman class of PCVs, we’re “sweet, wholesome, but a little nutty.”
The past few days have been like a lazy vacation here at Tubaniso- which makes it harder by the day to imagine being left out in the middle of nowhere sooner than I’ll ever be comfortable with. With the majority of volunteers having already left for their regions, it was only us in the Bamako region left here to prepare for site. Yesterday, we traveled to the regional capital, Koulikoro, to meet the governor. The beautiful city sat beneath green clifs and on the shores of Niger River that was more blue and inviting than the one we’ve known in Bamako. Protocal was like much in Mali- a silly formality. Danielle Hunt- this story is for you- During our meeting, the general’s cell phone went off. A big Malian man with military badges was fumbling for the small device in his pocket that was singing- no joke- “Boom Boom Boom Boom- I want you in my room”- and I was at serious risk for an uncontrollable laugh attack.
So at this moment, I’m sitting in my hut at Tubaniso for the last morning. The tucans are starting to chirp and the sun is just beginning to rise on an already humid and muggy day. This is the beginning of the mini-hot season that will tax on us for a brief couple of weeks before “nene waati” (cold season). In just a few hours- I load up my things on the Peace Corps SUV, and take off with my teammate Caroline, who is in the town just 7k away from my own. I’ve got a bike now, a gas stove, and a lot of letters from you all. So things I suppose will be a little easier. “We’re gonna wine them, dine them, and then throw ‘em out in the brush for two years,” I overheard one of the veteran volunteer trainers say. After living in this fantasy western world, it’s going to be quite a shock to go back to speaking Bambara and living on my own. The next three months are supposed to be for site assessment and smaller projects. My main task is to survey the village, integrate myself, and really get a sense of the needs of the community. When January comes, we all go back for a brief training session where we present reports on our sites and proposed project ideas for our service. Basically what it comes down to is- this is my time. There’s no more structure, no one (officially) telling me what to do. My immediate job is to get to know Dombila- and embrace it as my home for the next two years, and its people as my second family. I’m not sure when I’ll get to internet again, but it’s looking like I’m going to get together in Koulikoro with some of my teammates in two weeks, so hopefully there will be internet there. This is the time though, that I’ll be writing lots and lots of letters- so watch out for that. I’m excited though. I’m a real volunteer now, and I have a home where I can unpack my bags and not worry about packing them up again in a week. So “Anka Taa” (Let’s go). My SUV leaves in an hour. Dombila… here I come.